The Correspondent
Gilbert’s dying. It became the whole thing. You, Bruce and Fiona, my brother, our friends, my work, the house, our life, all of that was sitting on the sidelines, but I was in the ring wrestling, bloody, half-dead, with Gill’s death. Parenting the other two, trying to help them with their own grief, was like acting. I could say what needed to be said, but I was only thinking of myself in the ring with Gill’s death. I have asked Bruce and Fiona about that period of time. I was surprised to learn they’re both in therapy. I think neither of us was able to shepherd them in those first crucial months, submerged, completely, in the swamp water of despair. We were needing the same thing, you and I, a temple in which to tuck away and disappear from the earth, to mourn at the altar of our desolation, but we had the children, so we could not. Could we have held onto each other? I’ve wondered. We did the best we could and it was not enough. The four of us came away injured, but is there any other way for a person to come through? Oh, Gilbert. I do hope there is an afterlife as I have always believed, a heaven. I hope I will see him and know him there. I believe I’ve been looking forward to death on one hand.
From the archives
·
2018
French Exit
“I’ve just been out riding my bicycle,” Malcolm said.
“What bicycle?”
“Frances bought me one for Christmas.”
“That’s sad. Where are you?”
“Next to the canal. Want to know what I’m looking at?”
“Not really. All right.”
“Right in front of me there’s a boatload of red-faced German tourists waiting for the lock to drain. Across the water there’s a couple of kids playing Ping-Pong. Do you remember the solid concrete Ping-Pong tables by the canal?”
“Yes.”
“They must just pour them into a mold.” He paused. “I’m calling because I wanted to hear your voice,” he explained.
“Here it is,” she said. “Here’s my voice.”
But now there came another voice—a man’s voice, in the background. “Who are you talking to?” it asked.
“It’s Malcolm,” said Susan.
“Who are you talking to?” Malcolm also asked.
“That’s Tom.”
Both men began asking Susan unhappy, overlapping questions.
Read more of this excerpt...
French Exit
“I’ve just been out riding my bicycle,” Malcolm said.
“What bicycle?”
“Frances bought me one for Christmas.”
“That’s sad. Where are you?”
“Next to the canal. Want to know what I’m looking at?”
“Not really. All right.”
“Right in front of me there’s a boatload of red-faced German tourists waiting for the lock to drain. Across the water there’s a couple of kids playing Ping-Pong. Do you remember the solid concrete Ping-Pong tables by the canal?”
“Yes.”
“They must just pour them into a mold.” He paused. “I’m calling because I wanted to hear your voice,” he explained.
“Here it is,” she said. “Here’s my voice.”
But now there came another voice—a man’s voice, in the background. “Who are you talking to?” it asked.
“It’s Malcolm,” said Susan.
“Who are you talking to?” Malcolm also asked.
“That’s Tom.”
Both men began asking Susan unhappy, overlapping questions.
Read more of this excerpt...
WORDS TO LIVE BY
1986 ·
NON-FICTION
NEW MUSIC